


Without You

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Oh and did I mention the angst, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, can be read as johnlock if you squint, if you caught that then four for you reader, serious angst, tiny Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy reference in there, you go reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, Sherlock and John cope (well, not really) in their own ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You

**Author's Note:**

> I own DVDs of Sherlock series one and two. That ought to count for something.  
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked. Any mistakes are my own.

Everything is grey.

There's light, sure, and colour, but all John can see, everything, every _bloody_ thing, is _grey_ , except the blanket around his shoulders that's really an alarming shade of neon orange.

And the blood.

As hard as he tries, he _can't_ erase the blood from his mind, spattering across his memory, can't delete it like _he_ would have, could have, can't --

Someone's speaking. It turns out to be Greg (Lestrade, that is -- _he_ never bothered to remember Greg's first name) saying something about how _sorry_ he is, how he should have _seen_ , he should have _known_ , done something to _stop_ _it..._

Useless apologies. Of course Greg should've. They all should've. But they didn't and now it's too late, so why apologise when there's nothing anyone can ever do about it ever again?

"Why've I got this blanket?" he interrupts Greg to ask. A dull, vague echo of long ago, someone else, someone who _should be here_ but isn't. Never will be again.

"It's for shock."

"I'm not _in_ shock," John says. And he's not. Is he? He can't be.

Greg opens his mouth.

_Just say it,_ John thinks desperately. _Say it and everything will maybe be alright. Say it, Greg. 'Some of the guys --'_

"Yes, you are, John," Greg says gently, and John's world crumbles and falls apart.

* * *

Dull.

Useless.

_Boring._

There's no _point_ to anything, he's pacing back and forth and going out of his mind, and all he can think about is _John._

Collapsing to the ground after checking for a pulse, there wasn't one with the ball under his arm, it worked perfectly, just as he'd planned, planned to break John to keep him alive and it had worked so _well,_ when he'd caught a glimpse of John when they'd rolled him over and picked him up to carry him into the hospital away from John, he'd looked so broken and _grey_ and it was all he could do not to speak up to turn his head to tell John I'm alright I'm alive don't look like that please don't ever look like that again --

He realises that he's stopped moving, he's standing with his forehead against the wall and his hands pulling at his hair and he thinks he might go mad from the pain.

Slowly, he becomes aware of Molly standing there behind him. Just standing, holding a mug of tea that he can't, won't drink because it reminds him of John, John's jumpers and smiles and routine and kindness and soft voice and soft words and tea, always the tea that John makes -- made -- for him, and he can't drink tea now, maybe not ever, so he shakes his head at Molly and thankfully she understands and leaves, and he's left alone again.

* * *

Five people, including John, went to the funeral. John remembers that much afterwards, but the rest is mostly a blur. He remembers they all cried a lot, even him -- well, alright, not Mycroft, and maybe not Greg. He remembers Molly coming up to him and hugging him for several minutes straight, and then apologising quite a bit.

John doesn't know why.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters anymore.

* * *

Later, Molly tells him about the funeral. How sad everyone was -- all five people that went. He's not surprised that so few people showed up. Not many people ever really cared about him, and that was fine.

He asks her to tell him about John -- how he looked, how he was doing -- and he thinks he'll be able to handle it -- until she tells him how John, strong John, brave John, broke down and sobbed at the mere mention of his name, how John latched onto Molly like a lifeline when she hugged him, how sad, how _empty_ John's eyes were -- and then he knows it was a mistake to ask, and he turns on his heel and walks out, leaving her staring after him with pity in her eyes that he doesn't need.

* * *

The nightmares show up after the funeral. But they're not of Afghanistan anymore, they're of _him_ , falling, falling all over again, and no matter how hard John tries he's never able to save him. But still he keeps trying, tries to talk him down, and when that fails and he goes over the edge taking John's world with him, tries to get to him, save him, use his doctor's training and feels for a pulse where there isn't one, and still he tries, though he knows it's useless, tries until he's dragged away screaming and wakes up panting and sweating and wild-eyed and tangled in his sheets.

The waking up is always the worst part, because there's always a few moments, right after he first wakes up, where he thinks it was all just a horrible nightmare and _he's_ downstairs conducting an experiment or using John's laptop or maybe actually sleeping for once -- and then John _remembers._

* * *

He's never liked sleeping, always seen it as a waste of time, but now he hates it more than ever, because when he's forced into sleep he invariably dreams, and it's always, _always_ of John. Things that did happen -- John looking up at him, on the phone, begging him to get down, John standing over him and John being dragged away by the Homeless Network before he gives in and gives himself away, John alone at the grave because he couldn't bring himself to talk at the funeral and sobbing, _John_ , sobbing.

Things that can't, that _can't ever_ happen -- one of Moriarty's men finding out that he's alive and killing John, John moving on, John decided that he can't take it anymore and -- and --

And sometimes, very rarely, he dreams of them, before. Happy, laughing, together. At Buckingham Palace, at home, at Angelo's.

These dreams are really the worst, because he has to wake up to the realisation that he doesn't have that happiness anymore.

Might never have it again.

It's always after these dreams that he clenches his fists and buries his face in the blankets and cries, and prays to anyone who might be listening that his work is done _soon._

* * *

John tries dating again, months after the Fall. The first time, she's tall and blonde and so kind, and he thinks it might work. But then one day he asks a question -- asks if she _really_ plans to pay for their meal -- and she arches an eyebrow and asks, "Problem?" and she doesn't know, she can't know how _he_ used to say that, so there's no way she could understand why he runs out -- well, alright, limps at best -- and breaks up with her the next day.

He tries again a few weeks later. This time, she's shorter, with dark hair and glasses. She doesn't even last a week. For their second date, he goes over to her flat for dinner and crap telly, and he thinks he might be able to relax. But then she starts ranting about how everything that's on is so _boring_ , and he quietly excuses himself and doesn't call her back.

He doesn't date again after that.

* * *

He goes to Irene for help.

The small satisfaction that comes from the fact that he was right, when he saved her, that he'd someday need a favour, is cut short when she looks him up and down and smirks, and he remembers her obsession with having "dinner" and knows he'll have to stay on his toes.

She propositions him three times on the first day, and five times on the second. After that, he retreats to the room she's let him use, and she starts texting him and slipping notes under his door. She's persistent, he'll give her that, but why can't she see that he's just... not... interested?

Eventually he learns to ignore it, and after the first week, he's fairly certain that she only keeps asking out of habit, and not because she thinks he'll eventually say yes.

* * *

There are times -- few and far between, thankfully, but there -- when everything seems so _dark_ that John's not sure he can go on. When he sits in his room, holding his gun in his shaking hands, and considers just ending it all.

But he always sighs and puts it away, knowing it's not time yet, and goes downstairs and smiles at Mrs. Hudson and smiles at Greg and Molly when they come by and pretends to be fine, and waits for the day when he won't be missed when he goes.

* * *

He considers it. More than once.

He knows where he could get some cocaine, knows exactly how much to use to numb the pain and exactly how much would be fatal.

If he died, properly died, John would still be safe. Probably even safer than he is now. And he's not sure if he'll be able to live if he comes home only to find that John's moved on and left or... or the other alternative.

But then, "the other alternative" is why he keeps living, keeps fighting, because he knows that while John may have moved on when he returns, he also may not have, and if he hasn't then "the other alternative" grows more likely with every day.

And he will. Not. Let John take that option.

* * *

John sees him everywhere.

Men with black hair, men with long coats, tall men, men who look nothing like him remind John of him. It's gotten to the point where John can't even go outside anymore for fear that he'll see someone who reminds him of _him_ , and he'll break down in front of the world.

He thinks he might be going mad.

He finds that he doesn't quite mind.

* * *

Sometimes, he'll think he sees John.

It's never actually John, of course, but he panics every time until he realises it, even when he's nowhere near London where John is.

He knows he won't last much longer.

Luckily, he doesn't have to.

* * *

It's a Thursday (of course) when John finally goes completely mad. Or, at least, he thinks he does at first.

He's back from doing the shopping when he notices the door. It's only open a crack, but he and Mrs. Hudson have got the only keys, and Mrs. Hudson is off at her sister's, which means... Mycroft.

He's about to open the door to tell off the elder Holmes (the only Holmes, he remembers, and isn't it amazing how much it can still hurt even after this long?) when he hears the faint strains of violin music floating through the door and goes weak at the knees.

He pushes open the door and stumbles inside, sure he's hearing things, but there _he_ is, standing there playing his violin like nothing's changed in three years. When John enters, he puts down the violin and turns to face John, and he looks scared, so _scared_ , like John's never seen him before even at Baskerville, and then he starts talking and John barely makes it to his chair before collapsing because _that voice_ , so impossibly deep, is so familiar, and he'd thought he'd never hear it again.

"I'm sorry, John," he begins, and he sounds desperate. "I'm so sorry. I had to. Moriarty -- on the roof, he gave me a choice. Either I'd jump, or you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would be killed. Luckily, I had an inkling of Moriarty's plan beforehand, so I was able to fake my death, but you couldn't know or you'd be killed. I had to dismantle the web before I could tell you, but now it's done and I'm back -- to stay, if you'll let me."

"No," John says, and _his_ face crumples. "No, you're not here. You're not real."

"John," he starts. "I'm --"

"No, you're dead! You're dead, I buried you! You're dead, and this is just my mind trying to convince me that you're not."

" _John,_ " he pleads, reaching out for John, who jumps up and back away, limp magically gone.

" _No!_ Don't come any closer!"

John swings out wildly, trying to get this apparition to just leave him in peace, but his fist comes into contact with _his_ face. John freezes, looks up. Looks into his eyes, _his_ eyes, _Sherlock's eyes,_ Sherlock who's alive and real and _here_ , and tries to think. It's rather difficult, because his mind keeps coming back to the fact that  _Sherlock's not dead_ , but he works it out eventually. There will be anger, he's sure, and laughter and relief and probably quite a lot of crying, but before they can get to all that, he needs to tell Sherlock.

So he looks into Sherlock's eyes and tells him.

"Yes."

* * *

It's a Thursday when he finally regains his sanity.

His work's done, finally, it certainly took long enough, and the second Moran is handcuffed he's on his way to the airport to get a plane ticket to go _home._

He's still got his key, so he just walks in, but John's not there. He nearly throws something because he just wants to get it, the anger, the punching, over with so they can get back to how things should be.

But John wouldn't like that, and it definitely wouldn't help John forgive him, so he picks up his violin instead and begins to play. It's in tune, which is odd after three years, until he notices the tear stains on the body and realises that John must take it out every so often, keep it in tune, perhaps even play it.

The thought sends a pang through his chest.

After far too long -- he's nearly exhausted a quarter of his repetoire -- John pushes open the door and stops dead.

He stops playing, stops in the middle of a piece, and turns to face John, who looks like he's about to pass out any minute. He opens his mouth, starts to explain, and John limps to his chair and sits down, looking like he's seen a ghost -- which, to be fair, he technically has. He finishes with a disguised plea for John to take him back, and waits.

"No," John says, and his heart plummets. "No, you're not here. You're not real."

He panics, tries to explain, to make John see that he's real, alive, but John doesn't listen. Instead he jumps out of his chair and backs away, wild-eyed (but at least the limp's gone again, for now).

" _No!_ Don't come any closer," John yells, swinging out, and his fist makes contact with his face. It hurts, but it's worth it, because he can see, now, John putting everything together, raising his eyes, the moment when John realises that he, _Sherlock_ , is really alive and really here.

Sherlock sees when John opens his mouth, can tell what he's about to say, just one word that will make everything, _everything_ , alright again.

"Yes."


End file.
